


Prepare to be Boarded

by Lunar_Iris



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bottom America (Hetalia), International Talk Like A Pirate Day, M/M, Pirate England (Hetalia), Top England (Hetalia), horrible pirate puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 04:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8086318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunar_Iris/pseuds/Lunar_Iris
Summary: England topping? CheckRavished, incoherent America? CheckPirate!Iggy: Check





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've been wanting to start posting some of my stuff from FFN over here. I thought this one would be a good start. I'm just barely making it for Talk Like a Pirate Day. I wrote this years ago. And, I should probably have edited it before I posted it again, but I just couldn't help myself, and really wanted to get it up today. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

England had settled himself in a stool at the pub after that day’s session of the latest world meeting, waiting for America to conclude his own strange little brotherly meeting. Arguments with France, headaches from all the other countries’ petty bickering and the general insanity that defined the week long lack of productivity became minor drumming as he sipped away at his rum. It was third his glass—which had followed a few pints of ale and as many glasses of whisky, or maybe more. He lost count and switched between them whenever he became bored. Had he played a drinking game with someone? He couldn’t recall. Although, the last he could remember, Prussia and Denmark had been his company. They were gone now.

He glanced down the bar at America and his twin brother and fanned his shirt, feeling fidgety. America casually sipped at his fifth beer, England noted in amazement at retaining his ability not only to count but also see straight. The events of the meeting were of little concern now as was most everything else, so much liquor ran blissfully through his veins that he couldn’t be arsed with anything, except the way America’s eyes sparkled and cheeks pinked from alcohol and heat. He polished off the last of the rum in his glass and rose from the stool. The room tilted. It was just like being at sea again. Of course he could see straight. Mostly.  


“Gimme another, m’ good man!” he called out to the bartender.

“I think you’ve had plenty, sir.”

“I still have my sea legs. Don’t be giving me that nonsense. Just gimme 'nother.”

“Ya know Mattie,” England overheard a snippet of conversation when bartender turned, finally, to do as he requested. America was looking directly at him. “It’s really a challenging topping a drunken former pirate.”

Former pirate? He was always ready for a tussle! The opportunities just didn’t present themselves as they once did—and he liked to attempt to portray a different image now. England growled and swiped the whole bottle of rum when the bartender returned, and tossed enough money to the counter to cover it. He ignored the man's protests, shifting to stare again at America as he continued to speak to Canada. Ah yes! That was his name.

“Don’t really want to know, Al,” Canada yelled over the music, giving a firm brotherly shove.

“I mean,” America huffed and downed the last of his beer, quickly replaced with another full mug. “I don’t mind topping. Really, I don’t. But, he gets kinda demanding, and that’s so....” He sighed fondly. “So hot. Ya know?”

England curled his free hand into a fist and took a long swig from the bottle. America really had no tact at all, but he smirked at the younger nation anyway.

“Enough, Alfred. Enough. Please. I don't want to know.”

He took another long swig of rum—several lengthy gulps —and wiped a bit that dribbled onto his chin with the back of his hand.

“Sure, I’m a superpower and all, but Arthur’s really hot when he’s all commanding like that. It’s just a waste for him not to top when gets that way. I’ve always wanted just to let go, ya know, and not be the one in control. Be in his mercy.”

“I’m not listening any more Alfred!” Canada groaned. “I'm really not listening to you.”

“I have gotten to bottom a few times. There was this one time during World War II. I kinda had a few injuries that kept me from supporting my own weight real well. That was just the greatest thing ever. But, it’s just seemed to be obligatory that I top since then. I, like, don’t even know what it is. Even in politics and stuff. It’s been ages. It really is nice letting someone else take care of things. Kinda relaxing.” He scratched at the back of his neck, a nervous habit, lost in thought for a moment.

“Relaxing?!” Canada let his head thump down against the bar.

“Yeah, from what I remember.” And, America kept yammering on, striking at England's ire, going on about their sex life.

America was always so loving and affectionate when he topped. It never occurred to England that his lover was even the slightest bit dissatisfied. He thought that was the way he preferred it being the current world superpower. He averted his eyes from the sad smile America cast in his direction.

England couldn’t help over-hearing the conversation. Did America even know he was listening?

He didn’t want to think of himself as bad a lover—or a lazy one. Did he really pay so little attention to Alfred in bed? He swallowed back a sniffle with more rum. No...he’d show America. He wouldn’t let him think he was unloving. No...he wouldn’t let him think he was weak or even just all talk.

Top the hell of out him, blow him down. What if, by chance, he topped and America thought he acted too much like the Empire he was of old? England wasn’t sure he would be able to forgive himself for pushing America away a second time. Still...he couldn’t deny America something he seemed to want so badly.

A few other nations came to join the two brothers and they began another lively discussion.

England growled again and took a long swig from the bottle of rum, trying to loosen his tie and unfasten his top button, and realized that he did both over an hour ago. He watched America take off his bomber jacket in a smooth coordinated flow of dense muscle. America’s tie was already in his pocket and his top two buttons were undone. Eyes zeroed in on deliciously sun kissed skin over neck and chiselled collarbone.

He licked his lips at the sight of the uncovered skin, humming a sigh of appreciation. A hand was already to his buttons, his tie hung limp from his collar, and the second and third buttons of his own shirt were unloosened before he realized that was not his hand. Neither was the hand that felt up his arse.

“Yar!” he rumbled in his throat and jammed his elbow backward into the abdomen of the person behind him.

“Ow! But you make such beautiful sounds, mon cher.” France leered at him, holding a hand to his stomach. Hopefully, that would make a large bruise.

He scooped up the barstool one-handed and brandished it like a sword. “Belt up and sod off, fucking frog or I’ll give you no quarter!” The lovely buzzy, plastered feeling fled in the face of his sudden wrath. “Francis, keep yer hands off me or I swear I will hang ye from the mizzenmast by yer toenails.”

“Ah! Who gave Arthur a whole bottle of rum?” France called out to the crowd.

America giggled. “Oh, he took it. And, might as well have taken the bottle of whisky for how much he drank of that too. Haha!”

Leave it to the bloody handsome twit to be adorably manly even when giggling and running his mouth. How was that possible? The room spun as England gazed at America’s smile and into his blue eyes, deeper than sea and sky. “We.Leave.Now.”

“Well, goodnight Mattie. I think I’m about to be press ganged.” The cheeky wanker grinned wider.

Whoever said America couldn’t read the atmosphere never spent much time with him, because the boy was too bloody good at it when he wanted to be. Wait? England’s mind caught up with the conversation. Well, maybe not that good. Press ganged? By America's own bloody boyfriend? He should be offended. He should correct him now.

“Not press ganged. I know you come willingly, love.” He dare not say “impressed.”

“Hehe. Aye, sir.”

“Don’t you patronize me!”

Prussia and Denmark laughed from a table in the middle of the pub, a safe distance away.“ This is so awesome! Arthur bypassed weepy drunk and went straight to pirate!” 

“But Arthur is much more fun like this.” Spain inched behind France, granting him a false sense of safety. If England wanted to get him, he would. “He has missed ‘Talk Like a Pirate Day,’ though. And that is more fun when others play along.”

America’s laughter rang out through the cacophony of noise. They were no longer worth his time, if they were going to keep on like this.

“Pity that Alfred garnered his attention so completely for that is the finest pirate booty I have ever laid eyes on.”

“Well get your (fucking) eyes off it!” America and England both exclaimed—England with the profanity—and he flung the barstool in France’s general direction. It struck, precise, even without aim. Hopefully, in the wine bastard’s ugly face. It wouldn’t make him look any worse.

“Come along, lad.” He grabbed at America’s shirt and pulled him in the direction he last remembered the exit. The room spun once again.

America stumbled a few steps from the sudden change in his momentum, and took England’s weight and steadied them both. England took a few shaky breaths, their combined heat threatening to smother him. Maybe it was America. Maybe it was the rum. This might be the end of him topping if he couldn’t even stand up straight.

He snaked his arm around America’s shoulders and brushed lips against his ear. “Avast, my proud beauty. Would ye mind if I fired me cannon through your porthole?”

He pulled back to see the sparkle in Alfred’s eyes. “C-Cannon?” He swallowed heavily. Arthur watched as his Adam’s apple bob and his jaw fell slack.

England leaned in closer, letting his hands brush his stomach and loop around to his broad back. Their hips brushed, chilling warmth waved through his veins. “Aye lad.” He breathed again in his ear.

“You gonna show me how a real pirate captain buries treasure?” America sneaked a kiss, and pushed back. 

England bit back any comments about pirates rarely burying the treasures they found; the other nations catcalls would have drowned it out anyway. They were still in public; England wasn’t drunk enough to forget that. That public display of affection sobered him up. “Fuck off the lot of you.” He fisted America’s shirt and tugged him out into the street.

“I’m glad you live only a block away from that pub, Art.” America seized the keys from his hands and unlocked the door; England grunted his displeasure. “You’re so charming, Artie. Or should I call you Captain Kirkland tonight?” The idiot American chuckled with a foolish sexy grin.

“Shut yer gob and get inside.”

As soon as they were through the door, England had America by the shirt-front again, slamming the door closed behind them and dragging him up stairs. He kissed and caressed and didn’t think. It was wonderful.

Half way up the stairs, he paused for another searing kiss, one that took so much concentration. Alfred’s moans sent shivers down his abdomen. Bomber jacket, suit jackets and ties lay abandoned and forgotten on the landing; shoes tumbled down to ground level.

“Up we go.” England broke the kiss, switching their positions and manhandling America up the remaining stairs with the weight of his body.

In a mass of kisses and flailing arms, they opened and closed England’s bedroom door. America slammed him against it and fumbled with the buttons of England’s shirt in favour of attending to his neck just at the spot behind his ear where he was most sensitive. And, oh, that felt good. Before he became incoherent from America’s ministrations, England pushed himself away again and shoved America back until his knees hit the bed and rid himself of the rest of his clothing. He was surprised by the speed he could disrobe when sloshed. America watched in rapt fascination on the edge of the bed.

“You. Pants Off. Now.”

America fumbled in his eagerness to comply, nearly toppling over as he removed his jeans, sending his glasses tumbling to the floor as he pulled off his shirt. England stood naked at the bedside, twitchy from the heat of his erection, waiting for America to shed himself of his stars and stripes boxers. He fidgeted with the lubricant bottle in an attempt not to laugh at his boyfriend and distract him from built up ache.

He smirked when America finally stared back at him, smiling and eager. England pushed him to the centre of the bed and straddled him. He ghosted kisses across the sensitive skin of his chest and licked along the white web of scars. He blew the sweat-dampened skin near his nipples until America shivered and bit down on his lip. America writhed and twisted against the bedding, groaning an intelligible cry that almost sounded pained. Oh, he was eager, and the excitement went straight to England’s groin.

The world spun and, when his mind caught up with him, England found his back pressed against the duvet. He stared up at America, both motionless.

“Wh-why did you do that?” Arthur panted.

“Huh?” Alfred breathing quivered with uncertainty, eyes wide with lust and insecurity.

England chuckled through his breathlessness, and he clasped his fingers back around the lube bottle that had fallen to the mattress. He tightened his knees around America’s midsection, grasped his shoulders and flipped them back over. America landed on his back with a yelp.

“What? You were serious?” America’s voice was little more than a squeak, but his eyes shone with delight.

England smirked. “Oh yes.”

“You’re sure?”

England paused and pushed himself to sit on his thighs; America sat up as well. The action brushed their erections together. They both gasped. The friction was glorious, and it would be easy just to surrender to it. England gritted his teeth, struggling to remain self-possessed for a moment longer. He leaned forward and nuzzled America’s chest. “Are...are you nervous?”

“Excited?” He kissed England's bare shoulder. “I don’t know?”

“I heard you talking to Canada.”

“I know.” He pushed forward again, propelling England back against the bed.

“Stop that!” America whined and looked away, but England nipped at his collarbone. “You are nervous and you did that on purpose, didn’t you?” 

“Well...” America squirmed.

“You could have just asked me.” England ranked his fingers down his back; America shivered and pressed against him. England’s eyelids fluttered and he swallowed back a moan.  
“I guess.”

“Any time.”

“I didn’t really know if you were too drunk to be aware of what was going on around you.”

“I was aware, and I still am. Was there something that worried you?” He leaned forward to capture America’s lips, sucking at his lower lip. America whimpered, lowering into the kiss, but made no move to do anything else. “Tell me what you want, wench.” England racked his brain for material to egg America on, to ask what he wanted himself. His hands settled at the dip of the small of his back, fingers massaging the dimples of his buttocks.

America still looked unsure and his gaze darted around England’s face—to his eyebrows, his nose, his ear, his chin, his cheeks, his fringe—but never to his eyes. “Hm. Your wench.” He breathed when England cupped his cheeks in his hands, forcing blue to connect with green, and pitched America back against the bed again.

England kissed him quickly and deeply to conceal his exclamation of shock at America’s acquiescence to his questionable complement, his tongue eliciting a groan in the back of America’s throat that buzzed through his own, emboldening him anew. America struggled against his shoulders to flip them again, but England grazed his slender fingers along sensitive chest and sides, keeping him pinned to the bed. He whined and broke their kiss with heaving, shaky pants. “Yes, you are my saucy little wench, aren’t you? But, you will not do that again.”

“What?”

What kind of pathetic gobsmacked idiot are you?”

“Hey now! I don’t...! What? I don’t understand.”

“I heard your conversation with Canada.”

“You already said that.”

“Look I know and I know you’re not afraid that I will go Imperial on you.” He fought to keep his voice calm and level, the lust and temptation just to let America flip them and keep their status quo was immense. “I know that you aren’t afraid that I really will try to control you no more than you can control me.” He rubbed America’s shoulders. “You are afraid of something, though. What is it, poppet? Tell me!”

“Y-you.“ America swallowed hard and fought to maintain eye contact. “M-making you do something you don’t want to do. I know I could have asked, but...well, I didn’t want to push, ya know? Didn’t know if you’d be open to that. I didn’t want you to turn me away. I love you. And, you seemed to really enjoy things as they are.”

“I love you, too. There is no reason I wouldn’t be willing to do something that would make you happy. Something that would make me, as well. If you think I have not thought about it, you’re a fool. We both seem to have been afraid of the same things in different ways. I just wasn’t sure you’d be welcoming of the -.”

“Please! I’d love nothing more.” America licked his lips. “Please, let me feel you inside me. It’s been so long.”

Finally, he broke. He couldn’t figure out which of his words broke the mental dam, but he wouldn’t question that now. America was begging him, genuinely begging. England’s breath stuck in his throat. He took a deep breath. “Yes, I remember.” He wanted to chide himself at the senseless reply, but getting his mind and mouth to cooperate proved increasingly more difficult. This was going to be fun after all. More fun than he had anticipated.

England eased his weight off America’s thighs and ran his fingers down his torso. His lips followed, and his tongue trailed along the paradoxical amalgam of yielding fat and firm muscle on America’s abdomen. He nibbled at the cleft where hip and pelvis met thigh, his hands wandering down to spread his legs wide. “The time to amend that is long since overdue.” Fingers trailed back up firm thighs to tease between them.

“I remember the last time I made love to you.” England brushed a thumb against his sphincter. America yelped. “You still make such pretty noises. I’d just put a gag on you if I didn’t enjoy them so much.” He laughed and nuzzled at the trail of blond hair below America’s navel. America laughed with him, but it was strained and airy. He was already panting and groaning, which nearly caused England to laugh harder. “So eager.” England nipped, licked, kissed, teased. America cried out, clutch England’s hair and shoulders, anything he could grasp blindly. It hurt, but the pain complimented the burning in his own cock. England took him into his mouth, his grip firm on America’s hips to keep him for bucking up. England tapped into his reserves of strength against that of the superpower, keeping in control, in no mood to be choked.

He slicked up his fingers and teased them along the firm muscle of inner thighs, kneading them just to hear America’s desperate impatient groans. His hands felt cool compared to the flush of America’s skin. The heat was delicious and as intoxicating, welcoming and unthinkably wonderful as that which radiated on his cheeks and from between his own thighs. He couldn’t go on like this.

“Come on, Arthur.” He squeaked.

He released America from his mouth with a pop just as he slid a finger into him. The squeak became a strangled shout.

“In my own time.” England laughed and kissed, once again, along the sensitive juncture of thigh and hip, his hands roaming upward, teasing with a second finger before easing in and flexing it. Let no one say he wasn’t attentive and caring.

“Please!” America recovered his voice again, so England eased in a third finger and kissed him tenderly on the mouth, rubbing circles across his stomach and chest.

“Belt up.” He barked. America whined when he removed his fingers and reached over to the bedside table for a condom and a tissue to wipe his fingers. “It really has been a long time since you’ve been on your back, hasn’t it?”  
America answered him with a groan.

“Patience, poppet,” he chuckled, fumbling the wrapper open, fingers shaking with anticipation. America would have seen the smirk plastered on his face if he had the presence of mind to look up. “We have all night.” England warmed more lube in his hand and hissed as he slicked his erection.

“Prepare to be boarded,” England rumbled quietly into his lover’s ear, and felt his breath hitch. He peppered kisses along America’s jaw and neck as a distraction. He still drew a shout when he penetrated, hard and fast. America would have never been prepared for that.

“Ah!” he cried as England jerked his hips and eased them back against America, delighting in the nonsense whimpers, groans and moans coming from his throat. He might have thought America in pain if he had not kept his attention on the ring of deep blue that surrounded his dilated pupils.

“Come on, I can’t hear you, poppet!”

He quickly established a rhythm, tapping into just a bit more of the remaining spirit he had left of the British Empire that would never quite diminish, and bit down on the tender skin of America’s neck and then his chest. He left marks wherever his lips met skin and scratches along shoulders, pelvis and thighs as he found America’s prostrate and continued to thrust at that angle. America keened, and brought a leg up and around his waist; England shifted it up to his shoulder.

He moved a hand to help America along with his release. “Come on, Alfred. Cum for me.” He hummed. And, America came quickly in violent spasms with a shriek. England came shortly after at the sound and feel of it. America wilted onto the bed, looking up at England with half-lidded eyes. He rambled amid his panting but the words became intelligible whimpers.

England slumped next to him on the bed, panting in the wake of his own release, but not too spent to smirk at America. “Never ever say you don’t get what you ask for.”

He let America curl around him and held the younger nation closely, arms and legs tangling together, letting his contented mewls lull him to sleep. He thanked whatever powers-that-be for liquid courage and America’s own big mouth before he drifted off to sleep.


End file.
